Danial scooted his chair out from the table, loudly scraping on the tile floor. “Fine, it’s your bachelor party,” he muttered in Paul’s general direction. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He walked around the table, meeting Alex’s eyes only briefly as Enzo whispered something indecipherable in her ear. There was something about Danial’s expression that scared her: it felt at once cold and blindingly hot, indifferent and enraged. His eyes moved from Enzo’s hand on the small of her back to her face, taking her in as his features darkened. If she didn’t know better, she would say that he had mouthed something to her.

Before she could consider it further, he rounded the table and pushed past both of them, knocking Enzo’s chair slightly on his way inside. The very air felt disturbed by his movement, and she could feel the electricity buzzing and humming around her body, lingering on every inch of her skin.

10. Positano, Italy

10

POSITANO, ITALY

Now

If the restaurant terrace was breezy and luxurious, the karaoke bar was its logical opposite: stuffy and damp, in a dark stone basement that likely once served as a medieval torture chamber. The eight of them had crowded around a few miniscule bar tables, sipping some of the most questionable gin and tonics of their lives while a group of drunk girls squawked their way through a Katy Perry song.

Paul had a habit of insisting on fun, willing it into existence through brute force alone. And while it had always worked in college—it was part of what made him so popular—the cracks were beginning to show now that they were all firmly in their thirties. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make a place like this appealing, especially when the enthusiasm for this plan had been tentative at best. But he swayed to the music, undeterred, seeming genuinely charmed by the bleak ambiance as he sang along with the women on stage.

“I’m really glad I stayed for this,” Danial shouted across the table at Paul.

“I know you’re being sarcastic,” Paul replied, flagging down a server. “But no one is leaving until they sing at least one song.” He turned to face the overworked Italian man waiting with his notepad. “Eight Don Julio shots with lime, grazie.”

“Jesus Christ, no.” Bee waved. “I’m not drinking tequila.”

“Then I’ll drink yours,” Paul dismissed, much to Guy’s visible frustration.

“Do you drink tequila?” Enzo asked in Alex’s ear, his lips brushing her skin with every word.

“For Paul, occasionally,” she replied.

Across from her, Danial was already on his second drink, his movements—usually elegant and intuitive—on a five-second delay.

“What are you singing?” he slurred from across the table, looking between her and Paul.

“The usual,” he answered.

“‘California Dreamin’.’ The Mamas and the Papas,” Alex clarified to Enzo.